


Will It Go Round In Circles

by lynnmonster



Category: NCIS: Los Angeles
Genre: Humor, M/M, Shooting Guns, h/c, not exactly bondage, relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 21:40:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynnmonster/pseuds/lynnmonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>G Callen's day-to-day is not as boring as most other people's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Will It Go Round In Circles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bryonia_Alba](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bryonia_Alba/gifts).



> Many thanks to the cheerleading and beta squad, who will be thanked by name after the reveal!

Rhythmic flashes of blinding light intermittently pierced the blacklight glow that radiated from the touchscreen in Operations. Eric zoomed in on the footage to show a particular dancer amid the writhing mass of bodies in a club, whose limbs flailed wildly in an apparent seizure. The man's death throes had been captured on video by a webcam nestled inside a disco ball in the ceiling.

Nate cleared his throat. "Although it looks like this man is having an epileptic fit--"

"Actually, at first I thought he was just a really bad dancer," Eric said, then lowered his eyes when Nate glared at him.

"--it may _look_ like he's having a natural epileptic fit, but Petty Officer Garvey is actually reacting to a fast-acting poison that takes less than three minutes to kill an adult male. Unfortunately he's not visible on the video feed the entire time, but there's no doubt that the poison was administered at the club."

"Thank you, Nate." Hetty wasted no time dragging G and Sam down to wardrobe.

G was unsurprised to find that Hetty's idea of appropriate club wear chafed. He ran his finger under his collar ("At least it's a shirt collar and not a dog collar this time. Count your blessings, G," Sam said.) and grumbled all the way to The Noise Room. ("No, seriously, G. Drop it or I'll have to drop you.")

"But Sam, look. The line is so long," G whined convincingly. Sam arched his eyebrow as if to ask, _What do you expect me to do about it_? "We're going to be waiting outside all night, and we hardly ever go out any more."

Sam's shoulders slumped as he gave in to the inevitable and stepped out of the queue. "Come on, then." He grabbed G's elbow and pulled him to the front. A murmured conversation with the bouncer, a quick handshake, and Sam's hand settled low on G's back, pushing him through the entrance.

G craned his neck to look back at Sam. "He liked you, that bouncer guy. I can tell."

"He liked the hundred I slipped him."

"He'd like you to slip him something else, I'm thinking." Sam glowered at him until he turned the right way round and headed to the bar to ask their first round of questions.

Nobody knew the guy, nobody saw anything -- DJs, bartenders, and patrons alike. It was like Garvey had never even been there. "If they're so self-absorbed, why bother going out where it's crowded with other people they don't care about and won't notice?" Sam laughed like he'd made a joke, but G was serious. It didn't make any sense to him.

Luckily, although the people were oblivious, the closed-circuit camera was not. They had security play them the tape and it turned out the PO2 was not so much "murdered" as he "accidentally self-administered the toxic contraband he was attempting to smuggle," so. Since it was still early, they headed back to write up their reports and return their clothing. G rifled through Sam's glove compartment on the way, unfolding his maps and re-folding all the creases in the opposite direction. It was kind of anticlimactic when the bad guy had already offed himself for you.

* * *

Dom was hovering in front of the desks, trying to convince everyone to join the departmental softball team. "Do you even know everyone who works here?" he asked.

"No," said G.

"I do," Kensi said.

"Eric probably has them all friended on Facebook," Sam joked.

"I heard that!" Eric's voice came floating down. "And it's true!"

"Isn't it sad when people have no shame?" G mused.

Dom crossed his arms, obviously peeved that his topic was getting derailed. "You guys can't tell me we wouldn't totally _kick ass_ at this."

"I do excel in all my endeavors," Sam said, sagely. G threw a paperclip at his head.

"Here, let me see that schedule," Kensi said, and Dom handed her a sheaf of papers. She flipped through it and made some hmm-ing noises. "I played girls' softball in high school. The place I went for my junior year, we went to the state championship."

Dom brightened. "So you're in? And you'll help me get some of the others on board?"

"Nah," Kensi said, and tossed the papers to a sliding stop in front of him. "Sorry, but actual free time is kind of sacred around here. And we'd hardly make any of the games, anyway. Let the nine-to-fivers from the main office play. They have fun."

* * *

Late afternoon Saturday had turned to evening and Sam's bedroom was getting dark. Sam smoothed his hand down G's bare side, slowly but without lingering too much, and G allowed himself a long, satisfied exhale.

"This is better than spending the day chasing after pop flies, don't you think?" Sam asked, his chuckle pressed into the back of G's neck.

G rolled onto his back and cocked his head. "Waiting in line at the DMV is better than spending the day chasing after pop flies," he said innocently.

Sam snorted and grinned down at him, his teeth a flash of white in the murky dimness. "You hate team sports, don't you." G shrugged as much as he could while lying down. "You know, one day we'll make a real boy out of you yet." Sam scooted up against the headboard and switched on the lamp on the bedside table, pouring yellow light across the bed with a click.

G liked it better when the outlines of everything were uncertain in the near darkness. He grunted and twisted across Sam to slap at the base of the lamp, turning it off.

"G?" Sam asked.

"I can't sleep with the light on," G lied. "I think I'm going to take a nap."

Sam arched his eyebrow, clearly skeptical, and G flopped over to lie on his side again, where all he had to face was the wall.

* * *

"Mister Callen." Hetty's crisp diction greeted G as he entered her domain of the petite and the baroque. Everything was wooden and carpeted, and even Hetty's in-box had decorative scrollwork climbing up the sides.

"Hetty," G acknowledged in return. "You know, looking at your office, I'd never know this was L.A.," he offered, knowing that it would be taken as a compliment.

"Why thank you, dear," Hetty said. "The director of MI-5 once told me I had the eye of a decorator, the mind of a strategist, and the whip hand of a steeplechase jockey. Ahhh, London in the seventies was truly something." Hetty pursed her lips and regarded G sternly over the chunky rims of her reading glasses. "But I digress. That's not why I asked you to stop by for this little chat."

"Ah." G hoped this wasn't going to take long.

"Actually, I meant to ask you whether you'd considered the _direction_ you see this little ship of ours taking in the future."

"I can't say that I have, exactly" G said, only half-certain that he knew what she was talking about.

"Well, in general, I may row our boat while you shoot the ducks, but someone, dear boy, has got to plot the course from the beginning. Navigation is hard enough by oneself, as I have had ample time to discover. So I ask you to consider whether you'd be interested in someday assisting myself and others in a more ... anticipatory role here at NCIS."

G nodded thoughtfully. "No," he said. "Thanks, but I think you already know that's not my style."

Hetty twinkled at him. "I did know that. And now I -- and certain of my superiors -- know that you know that as well."

"This is what I get for being so good at avoiding official psych evals, isn't it?" G groaned.

"If you choose to look at it that way. But don't worry. Lack of political ambition is hardly a drawback in our top field agents."

"Okay, well. Thanks, I guess."

"Oh, and Mister Callen -- sometimes, it might be interesting to just … see where the current takes you. On your own time and in your own, personal watercraft, of course."

"Of course," G agreed in a slightly strangled voice, and fled.

* * *

Sam's body covered him, moved him and held him still. Sam's chest pressed firmly against G's back and his strong thighs splayed G's even further apart as he fucked into G with an assurance that practically melted G's spine.

G wanted to lick the snake tattoo coiling around the arm braced in front of him, worship it and bite it and then kiss the inky skin he'd marked up. He closed his eyes instead. It was never going to be like that. He wasn't going to get carried away.

He carefully didn't consider the fact that Sam's hard cock in his ass for the third time in as many days probably meant that he already was.

* * *

The first time it had happened, G's permanent posting at the LA office had still been a new thing. The two of them had gone out for a few beers after successfully closing a case, and G honestly hadn't thought about it much when he'd ended up sharing Sam's bed rather than crashing on his couch. He'd still been in the mindset he'd had as a solo operative -- and, after all, it wasn't too unusual for agents so inclined to grab a little moment for themselves when undercover out in the field, if the opportunity arose. G simply hadn't adjusted his thought processes to take into account that Sam wasn't his partner on a random op, Sam was his partner for the foreseeable future, and the two of them were not going to return to different agencies and different locations long before anything had the chance to matter.

As soon as he'd realized his mistake, G had tried to break it off with Sam.

Sam had foiled him easily. "So, what you're saying is, you think you're becoming too attached?" he'd asked with such a perfect, pleased note of flattered bewilderment that it had obviously been a sham.

"_No_," G had insisted, continuing doggedly in spite of the fact that he'd been forcing a conversation centered around _feelings_. "But I do think ... one of us might get too emotionally compromised, and --"

"I'm not feeling emotionally compromised." Sam had shrugged. "Are you feeling emotionally compromised?"

Of course G would never have admitted any such thing. Anyway, he hadn't been compromised. Not in any manner. It was just that he could have been. Or, rather, _Sam_ could have been. Potentially. More likely Sam than him. But Sam hadn't seemed to be reading from the same script. "No, Sam, but if we keep this up --"

"Is that what this is about? Oh, G. I had no idea I meant so much to you. If you're concerned about your emotional well-being, then of course I don't mind--"

"Shut up, Sam."

"I didn't consider how emotionally fragile you must be--"

"Shut _up_, Sam."

Sam had practically been giggling by that point, if Navy SEALs could giggle. "Okay, but you really should break it off with me if you're putting your heart at risk, I mean, _ow_, motherfucker. Don't hit me."

"Just forget I said anything, okay?" G had sighed.

"Sure thing, man. As long as you promise to remember the next time you hit me? I hit you back."

"Fine."

"Emotional fragility notwithstanding."

"I thought we were going to drop this."

"Wow, I wouldn't have pegged you for an optimist."

* * *

"Don't forget, everyone -- my place, this Sunday, 1500!" Kensi announced brightly, slamming her grocery bag on the tabletop. "I've got the charcoal right here, and there are hamburgers, hot dogs, and veggie burgers in my fridge at home already. Hetty, did you want to bring iced tea?"

"Iced tea is an abomination," Hetty declared with great authority. "I believe I shall bring some non-alcoholic lavender spritzers, if that's all right with you." Kensi made a note on a piece of paper she pulled out of her pocket. G thought it was kind of cute, how seriously she was planning a cookout.

"I'm bringing my famous tabouleh," Dom said, peeking into Kensi's grocery bag. "I got some fresh mint from my next door neighbor. Did you remember lighter fluid?"

Kensi scoffed. "I use a chimney. It's way better. So, anyway, what about you, Callen?"

"Wait, did I accept an invitation to a _pot luck_?" G asked with a sense of dread.

"Well," Sam explained soothingly, "It's a barbecue, so by tradition you bring something to put on the picnic table. I'm bringing my grandma's potato salad."

"Can I bring beer?" That would be easy enough.

"Sorry. I'm getting a keg delivered tomorrow," Kensi said.

G wrinkled his brow. "What's Nate bringing?"

Kensi checked her list. "He's got some kind of marinated chicken breast thing going. Huh. Do you think he's on a diet?"

"I have no idea."

Sam patted him on the shoulder. "Come on, G, you can bring chips and guacamole. I know smashing up a few avocados isn't beyond your capabilities."

"How do you tell if an avocado is ripe?"

"You can come to the store with me later," Sam said. "You can even use my kitchen, since you probably don't have any bowls big enough."

Kensi sighed. "I'll just put you down for some sort of chips and dip, TBD, okay? Has anybody seen Eric?"

"I believe he is working," Hetty said. "As all of you should be doing." She slapped her hands together. "Chop-chop! Now that we've had our little planning interlude, it's noses back to the grindstone."

"Okay," Kensi said. "So, you think he's upstairs?"

* * *

"Took you long enough," G rasped, his throat dry from lack of water.

"G! Are you all right?" Sam rushed over, holstering his Glock, and started checking him for injuries, even though G was still chained and cuffed in place against the warehouse wall.

"Thirsty," G said, and Sam immediately started rooting around in his pack for a water bottle. He unscrewed the cap and held the lip of the bottle up to G's mouth. G forced himself to drink slowly, but after almost a day without water even the tortuously slow sipping was still... bliss. He closed his eyes and swallowed more. Sam stepped closer to get a better angle with the slowly emptying bottle. G could feel Sam's body heat radiating from mere inches away. G pulled against the frustrating resistance of the chains and pressed against him, already hardening, a subservient whine rising in the back of his throat.

Sam stepped back and G opened his eyes.

"Something wrong?" G asked.

"No, I just -- The chains, the cuffs, I mean, I wouldn't have thought that was your kind of fun," Sam traced the cuff around G's wrist with one finger and looked at him quizzically.

"It's not fun," G said, in an utterly flat tone. He had almost a month in the cell of a sadistic bastard in Kosovo to make him sure of that. "That doesn't mean it doesn't get to me anyway."

Sam's hand dropped away like the metal of the cuffs had been heated to the branding point. "So let's get you out of these." Sam moved quickly and efficiently, muttering reassuring nonsense as he went about the business of freeing his partner.

G found it soothing even if it was unnecessary. He'd been through a lot worse. In fact, he was kind of regretting telling Sam the truth -- even though it really wasn't G's thing for good reason, this was Sam; they probably _could_ have had some fun before the cuffs came off.

The last of the chains dropped onto the cement floor with a clank. Almost in echo, a moment later it was followed by the bang of the metal door of the main entrance being rolled up in haste. Clattering footsteps and arguing voices resolved into the approaching cluster of human traffickers.

"You! Stop right there!" Instead, Sam and G exploded into motion, diving for cover in different directions.

"The cop is loose!"

"Shoot the bald one!"

G hunkered down behind crates of something-or-other. He couldn't decide whether he was lucky he'd been freed before his captors returned, or unlucky that he hadn't yet gotten a weapon from Sam.

Sam was wielding his own sidearm for maximum impact; G discerned the thud of at least one body hitting the floor between deafening volleys of gunfire. He tried to stay out of the range of stray bullets as he dug around in his pockets, still crouching behind the stack of crates. Sure enough, the book of matches he'd taken from the cigar storefront were still there.

"Yeah, you better duck -- one of me is worth _twenty_ of you!" Sam taunted, loud enough to ensure that G could hear him over the din.

_Twenty? Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen_ ... G muttered a running countdown as he lit one match, wedged the matchbook between two slats of the nearest crate, and lit the rest of the matches on fire.

_Nine, eight, seven_ ... the curls of fibrous packing material closest to the matchbook started to burn.

_Three, two, ONE_ \-- G leapt out from his hiding place while Sam laid down covering fire, and they both raced for the open door.

Their escape was accompanied by panicked shouts as the thugs noticed the fire now burning merrily and threatening to spread to the rest of the warehouse.

G didn't let the mayhem behind distract him, though. He rolled away from the doorway as soon as he was clear, and out of his peripheral vision he was dimly aware of Sam doing the same. Now in the parking lot, they each quickly put cars between themselves and the warehouse entrance -- now disgorging coughing bad guys and billows of smoke -- and moving as quickly and safely out of range as possible.

Sam put his hand up to his ear and tilted his head. "Team's on their way," he told G. "ETA sixty seconds."

They both relaxed at that; no need to keep track of the soon-to-be-arrested, and no need to make further escape plans. G scooted over to Sam's vantage behind a late model Dodge truck and, with a laugh, he sank down into a squat next to him, arms dangling off his knees.

G chuckled a little. "You really are a badass," he told Sam.

Smudged and a little singed, Sam preened. "You love it."

"You know, I kind of do," G agreed meditatively.

* * *

"I'm fine," G insisted, shoving the icepack Sam was brandishing away from his face. "Get that thing away from me."

"You took a pretty good knock on the head there, if that lump starting to rise means anything."

"I must have banged it. I didn't even notice at the time, so it can't be that bad. Now take your cold bag of drippy water back into the kitchen." G irritably made shooing motions at Sam until he took the offending icepack away.

"You sure you don't want to get that looked at?" Sam poked at the bruise forming on G's temple and G tried to shove him off the couch.

"No, it's _fine_, I told you."

"Did that happen before or after I showed up to rescue you?" Sam asked, snaking his way back onto the couch.

"Dammit, Sam! Just let me breathe for a minute, all right?" G glared. Sam slung his arm along the back of the couch behind him and gave him a milder version of the same look.

"G, you know you can leave whenever you want, right?" Sam asked, exasperated.

"Uh, yeah," G said, feeling a _No duh_ kind of look take over his face.

"And you know I actually _want_ you to stay, right? Even though you are a crazy cranky man who won't let me perform basic first aid?"

"Whatever. I can stay if you want, I don't have any plans tomorrow morning." G paused. "You are going to make me waffles, aren't you?"

"I was thinking French toast. And that's not what I meant and you know it."

G drew breath for another wisecrack, but when he looked at Sam, who was just sitting there waiting patiently for him to say something, he refrained. G straightened up from his previously slumped position and poked absently at the bruise on his forehead, wincing. "So, you want me to stick around, huh?" He looked away, scratching at the scruff at the bottom of his chin and down the side of his neck. The raspy noise seemed loud in contrast to the silence of Sam listening so intently.

He shot Sam a look from the corner of his eye, and the corner of his mouth quirked up without consulting his self-image first. "I could maybe do that."


End file.
